Monday, March 6, 2017

Populism is not new to American life; in fact, it is as old
as the republic itself. In its most basic, lowest denominator, populists are
the “pure people” who set themselves against a “corrupt elite.” One might argue
that this sentiment is at the beginning of, and is the heart, of the American
experiment. Parallel to that sentiment is the desire to not be subservient to
any other living human. Every man, as Huey Long said, should be a king. And
this is an interesting thing; until Donald Trump arrived on the political
scene, Huey Long was perhaps the most successful populist politician in the
modern age, and though Huey wanted every man to be a king, he wanted to be, and
tried very hard to become, the emperor who ruled over all the kings. The
authoritarian government that Long set up in Louisiana was “…the closest thing
to a dictatorship that America has ever known” (David Kennedy, Freedom From Fear: The American People in
Depression and War). One of the major problems with dictatorships is that
the martinet seldom thinks about what his subjects need or want. Absolute monarchs
only think about what they, themselves, want and will selfishly do whatever it
takes to get it. Dictators are less statesmen and more Mafiosi.

It might be interesting to go on and further compare Huey
Long with Donald Trump; both brash, both almost feral in their cunning ability
to get what they want, their demagoguery, their flamboyance, their rejection of
a globally unifying vision of the world, and their extremely thin-skinned intolerance
of criticism and contradiction. But these similarities are not what interest me
right now; I’m more interested in the message rather than the messenger,
because this populist notion of being servile to nothing and no one except
one’s own conscience is a malignant and pernicious idea. It’s malignant and
pernicious in large part because there is no longer (and perhaps there never
was) an agreement among the members of our society upon the very simple, manifestly
evident proposition that we all do better when we try to ensure that we all do
better. But dictators must do better than everyone else in order to have
someone to rule, creating a climate of competition that forces competition one
with another in order to curry favor with the powerful and wealthy, rather than
cooperation. An autocrat creates largely
artificial differences between genders and races, wars external as well as
internal, and a constant state of chaos designed to keep others off balance and
frightened enough for them to look to him to provide them with answers,
stability, and leadership.

Populism insists upon the fantasy of not being subjugated or
enslaved to anyone, and it is a fantasy which belies the reality of life, the
hallmarks of which are the painful disparities and frustrating limitations of being
a human being. But being human beings, we are geniuses at creating the
comforting illusion and the frangible “reality” that convinces us that we are unrestrained
free agents and can do as we please, especially if what we do pleases us. Populism
seems to depend upon the human tendency to create comforting illusions of
existential freedom and easy certainty while ignoring the utterly crushing
weight of all that one doesn’t, and can’t, know or accomplish. These kinds of
movements reject expertise and ridicule as naïve the idea that scientists,
journalists, philosophers, educators, and others may actually be working in
good faith, holding no agenda other than the desire to shed more light on the
mystery of human existence and, as Aeschylus put it, “tame the savageness of
man and make gentle the life of this world.” The task of living a human life
is, in large part, the struggle to understand one’s internal and external limitations
and constraints, and the fundamental problem to undertake when we encounter those
limits, is one of consoling and encouraging ourselves and each other to be adaptable,
resilient, and hopeful. But now in populist America there exists a rage, rage
predicated upon a belief that one’s failure to achieve a satisfying life is the
fault of someone else.

Why are so many of us willing, even eager, to believe the
worst about other people, especially those people who have struggled to somehow
cobble together an existence lived outside of “conventional” societal
expectations? Are we such a fragile people that we must purge from our midst
any ideas that emit the merest whiff of challenge or pose the slightest danger
to a fatuous and puerile comfort—a form of comfort that, I can only conclude, many
have proclaimed to be an unassailable, right? Are our identities and our
beliefs so fragile that we can brook no criticism of any kind or calls for
self-reflection whatever? Why do so many of our people and politicians want to
hurt, actually want to harm and punish, people who, harming no one by their
actions, dare to step outside of the influence of conventional social life and
love, work, create, and simply live as some deep, impelling need commands them?
Like a January nor’easter, there is a profound meanness and a chilling
humorlessness blowing across the U.S., and if it doesn’t freeze you in your
tracks it should at least give you pause, because no one, and I mean no one, is really safe in such an
ungenerous world for very long. One’s successes are not owed to one’s special
brilliance, or a shrewd manipulation of the constituent forces comprising life.
Good luck is always the most influential factor. Fortuna’s wheel can turn very
quickly and in so doing, unexpectedly crush one beneath it even though just a
moment ago, one was thrilled to have been atop it. And—make no mistake—we must
all, as Bob Dylan sang, serve somebody. In Melville’s Moby Dick, Ishmael articulated this fundamental truth saying, “Who
ain’t a slave? Tell me that […] either in a physical or metaphysical point of
view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should
rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.” The populist vision sets no
one free, it makes no person a king; in fact, it always does the opposite by
enslaving one to a dollar, a demagogue, a desire, a nation, or a religion. How
the enslavement happens varies, but it is a virtual certainty that one will be
enslaved, at the very least, often to one’s own worst impulses.

So why, then, are people attracted to mass movements like
populism? I think Eric Hoffer provides us with the answers in his 1951 book, The True Believer. Movements such as
populism are especially appealing to those who long to be other than who or
what they are; they want to be rid of an unwanted life, an irksome existence, a
too weighty humanity; they have failed in terms of finding the ability to
create the kind of life they think they should have been able to live, and they
find no hope of life being different for them in the future. Mass movements
appeal to those who feel cheated by life, that they have been prevented from succeeding
by outside forces or some massive conspiracy instigated by minorities, a
secret, wealthy cabal, or a “rigged system.” The fanatic, writes Hoffer, “…is usually
an unattractive human type. He is ruthless, self-righteous, credulous,
disputatious, petty and rude.” He is willing to “sacrifice much that is
pleasant and precious in the autonomy of the individual […] The true believer
is eternally incomplete, eternally insecure.” Fanaticism is the only way for
some to quiet the inner voices of doubt and uncertainty, and by joining a mass
movement they hope to lose their frustration and seem to give themselves a new
self, a new identity, and a different, less problematic life.

Unfortunately, their new lives are empty of any individual
uniqueness, critical thought, self-reflection, or free choice. They give
themselves over to a demagogue who has convinced them that he is leading them
away from their undesired, intolerable lives, and the kind or quality of ideas
the movement espouses is of little significance to them. What is significant to
them is “…the arrogant gesture, the complete disregard of the opinion of
others, the single-handed defiance of the world” (Hoffer). The act of taking up
fanatical points of view is tantamount to an admission of deep fear and
uncertainty, a profound personal shame at the center of one’s being. And if he
can convert others to the fanatical cause, he shores up his weak self-concept
and feels more whole and complete. Curiously, a forced conversion of others through
intimidation or other coercive means doesn’t seem to subdue his enthusiasm for,
or cause him to question the moral, ethical strength of his belief.

It seems to me that the loudest, most insistent, most
authoritative voices demanding patriotism and trumpeting freedom are likely to
come from the very people who feel the least whole, and the most aggrieved about
their inability to live a life of personal meaning and personal significance and
who are the least fit for living contentedly in a truly free society, let alone
governing it wisely.